Corruption
by Suddenly and Deliberately
Summary: The Lord of Minas Tirith takes the only course of action available to him, dark though it is.
1. Death and Despair

Denethor bowed his head resignedly as the last of the mourners left the Silent Street. It had been several days since his father's death, but Denethor still couldn't come to terms with the fact that Ecthelion was gone, entombed in one of the plaster-and-stone coffins bearing his likeness on the top- the one that had been prepared for him for many hundreds of years. Denethor was, of course, the Ruling Steward of Gondor in his father's stead, something he was certain he would fail utterly at. Morbidly, Denethor cast a glance at the stone casket to the right of his father's. It was built into the very floor of Rath Dinen, such as all the others were- crafted ages ago at the building of Minas Tirith. This one, however, was empty as of yet- and it awaited the death of Denethor so that it could finally close- such thoughts crossed Denethor's mind until he heard a hushed voice. "Milord?"  
  
Denethor's sharp features softened a measure as he heard his young wife address him by his title. His breath caught slightly in his throat, just as it did nearly every time he saw her. She was wearing the blue overcoat that had been a gift from her father, Lord Adrahil. Her jet-black hair fell over her shoulders- it was down, just as Denethor preferred- and framed her fair face, which, Denethor noticed, had been unusually pale as of late. Even so, he smiled at her, though the smile did not reach his eyes as it usually did.  
  
The days had grown so dark, and Ecthelion's death had left Denethor with many worries and difficulties, not least of which was the garrison at Osgiliath- the last line of defence for Minas Tirith. Denethor and his men had also been having serious trouble with the Haradrim that were passing through Ithilien. The Gondorian rangers had been doing their best to suppress their enemy, but their numbers were far too few. Denethor had realized that they were traveling to Mordor on top of everything else- and he was quite sure that they weren't exactly attacking Sauron's Black Gate.  
  
However, he managed to put aside all of his newly-acquired troubles as his wife reached his side. She had recently returned from Dol Amroth, and though the journey seemed to have done her well, Denethor could tell that there was something amiss with her. A certain despair, perhaps, at having seen the darkness of Mordor after going so long without the sight of its evil. "Finduilas." He whispered her name and drew her near to him. She looked up at him, and, in her fair face and grey-black eyes, he saw the same trust of him that had always been there. "How I've missed you, Finduilas." He leaned over and kissed her deeply. She pulled back after several seconds and regarded Denethor with a teasing gleam in her eyes.  
  
"Well, seeing as how you had the pleasure of my company just this morning, you couldn't have been longing for me so terribly."  
  
He laughed, pulling her closer. "Ah, that's correct, I'd forgotten. You were away from Minas Tirith for so long." He had, in truth, been the one that had sent her to Dol Amroth, due to the supposed peril that Minas Tirith had been in at the time. It had been rumored that the Dark Lord Sauron would then launch his final attack, and, though Denethor highly doubted this, he decided not to take such a risk. "It grows late, my lady," he addressed her. "Shall we go thither?" He gestured toward the Citadel, the top of which was now stained crimson from the setting sun. "Speaking of which. where are my sons?"  
  
"They are being taken care of," she answered him.  
  
"That is well," replied Denethor, and with that, the two walked out of the house of the dead. Denethor pulled the door of the Silent Street shut, locked it, and the tombs were plunged into darkness.  
  
It was in the upper part of the Citadel where the ruling family of Gondor had always dwelt. It seemed to Finduilas that it was ever cold, somber and. despairing there, and she longed for the open air and the sound of the sea that she had always taken for granted in Dol Amroth- always, that is, until she had wed Denethor. She had never become quite accustomed to the stone city of Minas Tirith, though it seemed to befit Denethor perfectly. Finduilas did not understand how one could live when their burial site was already prepared for them, and, even more pressing, how one could endure the almost palpable evil of Mordor that pressed upon fair Minas Tirith constantly. One was always threatened here. Finduilas knew that she could never ask Denethor to leave his city, not that she would, regardless. The one short occasion that he had traveled to Dol Amroth with her- she could recall the look in his deep grey eyes as Minas Tirith came into their field of vision, and when the silver trumpets of the White City "called him home," as he liked to put it. His eyes only lit up in that manner on one other circumstance- when he caught sight of her.  
  
Hearing a child's cry stopped her mid-thought, and she got to her feet from her chair near the stone fireplace, next to which was a frighteningly lifelike carving in the wall of King Isildur. She had never thought highly of that man- for, if he had not succumbed to the power of the Ring, most of her current troubles would be nonexistent. She left the watchful gaze of Isildur's likeness and hurried into the adjacent room, where her year-old son clamored for her attention.  
  
He and his six-year-old brother had accompanied her to Dol Amroth, despite the older's protests and desire to stay and "help kill Sauron." Denethor had given him a fond smile at this remark, for Denethor himself had just gifted the boy with a small blade of his own, though Finduilas half- protested that the child was far too young for such a weapon. Her younger brother, Imrahil, had not received a sword until his twelfth year, after all, and her son was but half that age. However, under Denethor's watchful eye, the boy had shown surprising precocious skill with the blade, and Finduilas had taken great pleasure in informing Imrahil that her child had the same talent with a sword that Imrahil had when he was twenty. He had laughed at that, taken his own sword, and gladly sparred for several hours with the seemingly tireless six-year-old.  
  
Brushing her reminisces aside, Finduilas pulled her youngest into her arms. "Hush, Faramir, hush, my child." she whispered to him. At that moment, she heard a ripping sound coming from the room across from where she currently stood with Faramir. Finduilas went thither, where she found her eldest standing amidst a now-tattered wall hanging depicting the Last Alliance of Men and Elves and the demise of Sauron- another decoration that had adorned that very wall for centuries. There her child stood, sword in hand, attempting to look innocent.  
  
"Boromir! What have you done?" admonished Finduilas.  
  
"I. was just practicing with my blade, and I. sort of fell and grabbed onto this old hanging, and it kind of ripped. I don't really like elves anyhow," he added.  
  
"Boromir! Do you have any idea how long that has been there? What your father shall say, I can't imagine. And why are you awake at this hour? And- wait. was not that blade in your father's and my chambers? Whence- how- did you acquire it? Surely he would not have just allowed you to take it."  
  
A confused expression crossed Boromir's countenance. "Father wasn't in there." 


	2. The SeeingStone

Denethor climbed the worn stairs to the very top of the Citadel slowly, deliberately. He had debated with himself over and again about whether this was the right course of action to take, but try as he did, he could see no other way. There was no "right course" or "wrong course" in his mind, there was only one. He had spent countless hours, whilst Finduilas, Faramir and Boromir were away, in his study, poring over the ages-old writings of past kings of Gondor. Much to his dismay, he found that none of them, not even at the height of Gondor's power, had dared to do what he, not even a pure Numenorean king but a Steward with but a drop of Numenorean blood, was about to do.  
  
They had all known about it: Isildur, Anarion, even his own father. so why, why had they not used it to their advantage? Such a tool would have proved invaluable in many of the crises the kings of the past had faced. Yet nothing seemed to compare to Gondor's present peril- for what could be more threatening than Sauron with renewed power? The Dark Lord would strike Minas Tirith harder than anyone could know. If he, Denethor, Ruling Steward of Minas Tirith, could only see Sauron's mind, he could give Gondor at least a slight advantage against the Dark Lord. Despite his rationalizing, Denethor's blood ran cold when at last he reached the top of the flight of stairs.  
  
The sky surrounding Minas Tirith was dark, save for a faint red glow where Denethor assumed Mount Doom must lie, as he gazed out of the tower window. He strode steadily toward the grey door engraved with elven runes that was at the top of the stairs, and pulled it open. Within lay a room with little furnishing, save a banner bearing the Tree and Stars which was hung on one wall, and a pillar of black stone which was approximately half of Denethor's height that stood in the precise center of the hexagonal chamber. The darkness seemed to close in around Denethor as he approached the column. Atop it rested a spherical object veiled in a thick black cloth. Denethor put out a trembling hand and removed the black veil.  
  
What lay beneath the veil was nothing particularly remarkable, not to the unknowing eye. It was a rather small, jet-black sphere. However, if one were to rest their hand upon it, they would discover strange warmth, almost as if the object were alive. Along with this, the blackness of the sphere seemed to swirl about in its very depths. Denethor immediately noticed the latter, instantly enraptured as he was by its darkness, the evil darkness of the palantir.  
  
Breathing quickly, he moved closer to the palantir. He knew exactly what he was dealing with: two months of research on the matter had not been soon forgotten. Denethor also knew who held the palantir, or seeing-stone, that was closest linked with the one he was presently gazing into. He realized that it was Sauron- in fact, that was what he was depending on. He intended to go through with this once, and only once. He would discover Sauron's strategy. He, Denethor, would single-handedly save Minas Tirith from the very grasp of the Dark Lord! Such thoughts attacked the Steward as he rested his hand atop the palantir.  
  
He had no intention of communicating with Sauron- not in the least. Denethor only intended to secretly discover the Dark Lord's plots. However, as he looked further into the palantir, he still could see nothing but vague black mists. He clenched the fist that was not resting on the seeing- stone as he though of a way to, perhaps, find what he sought.  
  
In a voice much less steady than he would have preferred, Denethor spoke to the darkness. "Show me what I seek." He shuddered as he heard himself speak- for he was using the black tongue of Mordor. Denethor gasped at his newly- acquired language and was about to turn and exit the dark chamber when the palantir began to glow with a red light. His eyes grew wide as the palantir's image shifted. Within, he saw a terrible image that had only haunted his darkest dreams: Minas Tirith going up in flames. The image shifted fluidly, without his consent, to a lush, grassy clearing near a river that he assumed to be the Anduin.  
  
In the clearing stood a tall man with black hair who strongly resembled Denethor himself. Denethor saw the man's face as the palantir allowed, and furrowed his brow as he viewed the strange man's eyes. For a reason unbeknownst to the Steward, he felt as if he knew this man. A desperate look haunted the man's eyes, and it looked as if there had just been a great battle, with this man as the victor. Denethor smiled proudly at this, though he knew not why. Many of the enemy lay strewn about the grass- orcs? Goblins? Denethor had never seen this kind of dark contrivance before. Still more of them, far too many for any mortal- or immortal, in that case, to handle- were appearing through the trees. The palantir skipped ahead- to later in the same battle, Denethor assumed. A black-feathered arrow cleaved the air- it found its mark. The man cried out as the deadly projectile struck him; then, he looked down in shock at the arrow protruding from his chest. He attempted to slay still more of the foe- against overwhelming odds, and was hit several times more before finally crumpling to the ground.  
  
"No." whispered Denethor. "No!" The palantir denied his wishes to see the further fate of the man, instead portraying a fleet of black ships, apparently filled with corsair soldiers. Then the man must have died. Denethor wasn't sure why he minded- he had never seen this man before in his life- or had he?  
  
Any connection Denethor tried to make between that man and any he knew was abruptly cut off, as the palantir showed him a sight more evil than any he had witnessed in all his years. It was an eye, veiled in flame, and its gaze penetrated Denethor's very being. Denethor was unaware that he now had both hands on the seeing-stone, gripping it tightly. There was just this, this battle he could not possibly win. In some last, desperate attempt to escape, Denethor grasped the black cloth and threw it over the palantir. His stern will gave out, as did his legs, and the Steward crashed to the floor, striking his head upon its dark tiling, and his vision faded to black. 


	3. Contrivances of the Enemy

The darkness over Mordor was complete and evil as usual. Sauron's malice was stirring once more. He was forming an army to declare war upon all Middle-earth, the last war. The Dark Lord had already ensnared several allies, who mistakenly thought they were useful and needed by the Dark Lord. They were wrong. Sauron would dispose of them when they had served their purpose. This technique had worked well for him over the years. It had been disappointingly easy for him to gain their "undying service." There was but one thing that would make certain his victory over all Middle- earth. the weapon he had lost so many years ago.  
  
He hated to admit to himself that he had no idea what had become of it. The hapless human that had robbed him of it had, paid, oh yes, he certainly had. But the foolish servants of his that he had chosen to carry out the bloody task had failed him in the imperative part of the plan: to retrieve his weapon. They had paid dearly for their mistake as well. He could still gloatingly hear the sounds of their screaming. But none of this torture had caused his weapon to be found. But it would be: in but a few short years he would send forth the Nine once more. They could not be foiled. They could not betray him or be killed. They were bound to him, and would do exactly as he wished them to. None could withstand their evil blades, he had made sure of that.  
  
Now the Dark Lord's malice turned toward Minas Tirith, the City that had ever been a thorn in his side. Thither was where that human had come from, the one who had robbed him of his weapon. And Sauron had never been able to reach into the City like he had done in countless other locations. There was almost an elvish protection about its walls, or so it seemed. Yet now he had his chance. The current ruler of the White City had dared to challenge him. Sauron had been so outraged at this man's forthrightness that he had almost given himself away.  
  
Almost. but not quite. He had shown the man exactly what the man had wished to see. what would, undoubtedly, happen. But certainly, Sauron had not disclosed everything. And this had worked rather well. Perhaps Sauron had found a way into the very center of the city of Men. He would use a different method on this.Steward, and enjoy watching how it succeeded. For it would succeed.it always had. 


End file.
